


last night

by anth (antheeia)



Series: Curse of Strahd: despacito [3]
Category: Curse of Strahd - Fandom, Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Campaign missing moment, Catboy character, M/M, Mutual Pining, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-27 00:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20939447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antheeia/pseuds/anth
Summary: Strahd is an old fashioned-man: no turning before marriage.





	last night

**Author's Note:**

> This story serves a prelude for an adventure my group is going to play, where Strahd marries one of their PCs.  
Arth, the PC in question, is a human warlock (with cat ears) and he belongs to [dollyfish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollyfish/pseuds/dollyfish), as does his dialogue in this story. He's adorable and very eager, and I love him more than Strahd ever will.

When eating is an act that takes control away from you — when eating is something primal and wild that you cannot rationalize or civilize — you learn to recognize certain things, certain signs that precede that loss of discipline.

Strahd von Zarovich has learned to recognize the signs so long ago that the process is ingrained in his every act — a continued awareness of everything around him, that maintains itself constant even when he is perfectly relaxed.

Therefore, when he feels drawn to the bedroom door, he knows better than underestimate it. The feeling of alertness comes to him so naturally it’s not even a conscious effort anymore — he just knows when the thirst is coming, and what to do so he can be perfectly, utterly in control of it. He is prepared when he pulls down the handle and pushes the door open.

Inside, Arth is standing in his nightgown, ready to go to sleep.

He turns towards the door opening with his wide blue eyes looking like a rabbit cornered by a fox, although his expression doesn’t take longer than a second to soften into a smile teeming with life.

This is the last day Strahd gets to see that — the last day before he drinks that vitality away — and he has almost no trouble admitting to himself it saddens him. Someone with a scent like that is hard not to bite until they’re dry and yet hard to consume when you’re aware that you won’t get to do it again.

It’s in moments like these that Strahd pities his spawns the most — the wild, famished young things just can’t help but give in to their nature, exchanging control for the simple pleasure of feeding. They can’t even begin to understand the complex, delicate pleasure of savoring every drop of blood, the art of taking enough but not too much, the game that is circling your prey before you consume it — the thrill of it, even when you already know from the start who will win.

However, there is something attractive about the eagerness the spawns have, that somehow makes them seem closer to the living. Something that makes their untamed nature attractive. Just as some of the living, they have that despair that comes from the fear of death — both have in common their closeness to it, on either side.

A closeness — to death and to the livings — that is something impossible for Strahd to accomplish, for the undeath has had him so long that it consumed every trace of life that was left in him, has corrupted him so much that the darkness in his soul has nothing in common anymore with the bright energy of life. He’s not a slave to emotions and feelings, not a victim of time, he isn’t touched by humanity in the least. Therefore, little can prevent him from keeping all under control, and he’s hauntingly aware of those things that can make his discipline waver, his will tremble, the eager beast under his skin crawl outside without permission asking for a prey it’s not allowed to have just yet.

Every reincarnation of Tatyana did that to him — inevitably condemning him to lose her, to see her die each and every time. And thirst, when he ignores its call long enough, isn’t much different. Arth’s scent comes worryingly close to either of those two things — possibly both.

“Nervous?” Strahd asks, the heedfulness in his question rooted in little more than politeness, but the interest in his eyes genuine.

The way Arth is — so fiercely, indomitably alive as if his heart beat at twice the speed of everyone else and at the same time his body barely felt the flow of time — that is what interests him. There is something unique about him, a yet untapped power, something not even Strahd himself can put into words.

Arth fidgets, long fingers at the end of small hands and thin wrists. The fading scar of Strahd’s first bite is half hidden by the leather choker he wears on his pale neck — that could just as well be transparent for how thinly the skin shrouds the blood vessels underneath.

“Not at all.” Arth smiles even wider, and his heart gallops faster and faster. “You’ll be there with me the whole time, after all.” Arth’s quickened heartbeat gives him a sweet, intoxicating smell, and Strahd knows he could never quench his thirst enough to be indifferent to it.

Arth gets closer, takes Strahd’s hand as if he wants to lead him somewhere — he’s a daring one, Arth, and he makes it easy to forget all the planning, the whole bigger picture, in favor of his scent and the unaware sensuality of his body. Strahd is ancient, and doesn’t seek ease, doesn’t need it, either: the part of him that feels the appeal of it stirs somewhere beneath his skin, but he is ever the one in control.

Strahd takes the hand Arth has closed around his own and, through the soft skin of Arth’s palm, he feels the veins flutter, feels the echo of full arteries throbbing at every thump of the heart. The dead muscle resting in his own chest almost pulses along, propelled by the craving in his drying throat.

He bows and lets his lips brush against the knuckles, ever so lightly. Just as he was taught, so long ago it’s not even worth remembering by whom anymore.

Arth’s skin is warm, burning if compared to his own, and the fulsome, nectarous smell he emanates with every heartbeat makes its way into Strahd’s nostrils even without him inhaling.

“To share tomorrow and the rest of my future with you is nothing but my pleasure,” Strahd murmurs, before letting go of Arth’s hand.

The young body in front of him feels warmer even at an arm’s distance. The hint of a smile on Strahd’s face is calculated and hides his placid satisfaction at seeing Arth’s gleeful expression, ears softening on his head, his gaze looking away.

Arth walks towards the bed and picks up a cape that lies on it. Strahd hadn’t noticed it until now, and the quiet swishing of its heavy fabric attracts his attention. It’s black with a deep red hem, and the velvet folds softly following Arth’s movements.

“I have a present for you,” he says. It shouldn’t surprise Strahd as much as it does.

When Arth hands it over to him, Strahd can see it’s hand-sewn. Capable fingers have hemmed it almost perfectly, stitched a thin, nearly transparent dark red interface on the inside of it, and embroidered his initials in a corner with dark red thread.

“I used the other capes in the wardrobe as a model,” Arth adds, his voice nearly apologetic, “so I wouldn’t bother you.”

The style does look similar, but the lower collar and the heavy fabric will make it an unmistakably unique piece of his collection. Strahd strokes the smooth velvet before taking the garment from Arth’s hands as if testing its softness. Undoing the folding breathes that smell into the air, just as sweet as the original, but riper, as if the fabric had absorbed into its weaving a dry, stale version of Arth’s scent.

“I know you have other elegant capes, but I wanted to give you a wedding present you’d appreciate,” Arth speaks again, after a moment of silence. When Strahd looks towards him, a face flushed red with embarrassment returns his gaze.

Strahd likes being surprised, and Arth seems to be making a habit of it. But what the vampire feels is even more attractive about Arth is the complete lack of insincerity and duplicity in his intentions: his expression is so transparent right now that Strahd can clearly tell he’s speaking nothing but the truth. 

No matter how much he is tested, Arth always seems to come out on top with something that exceeds expectations. This time, it’s only a present — but Strahd hasn’t received a present in centuries.

“It’s not a local tradition for the betrothed couple not to see each other’s clothes before the ceremony, right?” Arth’s voice sounds apprehensive, eager for an answer.

Strahd shakes his head slowly. He can feel Arth’s eyes on him, infused with a different type of thirst than the vampire’s, and he wonders how far that earnest soul of his would be willing to go to appease that thirst — if Arth would go to the same lengths as he did, if he’d go further still or if, as it is for most people, there’s a limit he isn’t willing to cross.

Such limit, if it exists, is certainly beyond associating himself with the devil — beyond making a deal with him, forgoing his soul and body to the curse of vampirism and all the consequences such an act brings.

“This is finely crafted,” Strahd comments. He raises his gaze from the cape he now has folded on his arm. “You must have worked on it for days.”

“A few,” says Arth, face still flushed, ears standing up on his head as he eagerly downplays his own work. Strahd looks right into Arth’s eyes, two pools of yet unquenched yearning, as mortal as a pair of eyes can get. It feels like they see no limit in front of them.

“Preparations for the ceremony have kept me away,” Strahd explains before Arth can say more — he’s not lying, but his words are a half-truth which Arth doesn’t seem to doubt. “I did hope you weren’t lonely, and knowing this is how you spent your time makes me glad.”

What also kept him away is that quick heartbeat — echoing in his ears as loud as if it were his own in the rare instances it’s awakened, calling for him, drying his throat with thirst and lust. Everything about Arth is hard to resist, maybe because he’s an outsider and the dread of that place hasn’t touched him yet, or maybe because of his otherworldly essence that paints him in a light different from any other.

All that has kept Strahd away until now and it should have kept him away some hours more. He knows the signs and knows giving in wouldn’t be without consequence.

Strahd turns, he’s about to leave when he feels arms close around his torso, Arth’s scent embrace him irresistibly and he feels almost  _ compelled _ to stop in his tracks.

He could decide to leave still, he could choose not to risk his long-maintained balance of instinct and reason, he could keep walking and ignore that hug whose strength can’t even hope to keep him anywhere. 

But, instead, he turns into it.

He does it knowing that this young, beautiful man who’s holding him tight is as irresistible as he’s eager, and as earnest as he’s dangerous — that maybe it would be safer if Strahd just drained him dead. But, if he wasn’t willing to take a risk, he wouldn’t be the Lord of Barovia. 

Arth buries his face into Strahd’s chest, and the vampire returns a half-hold around his waist, seizing that vulnerable yet dangerous body for himself.

“I- thought about you a lot, these days,” Arth says as his veins throb with a fervor that would surely taste fruity on Strahd’s tongue.

Strahd cannot study the expression on his face, hidden as it is, and so his hand goes to reveal it: he puts just enough distance between them before lifting Arth’s chin with his hand. Arth’s half-open lips are soft and supple — the last time Strahd kissed them he almost sank his teeth into them; the blood coloring his face gathers on his cheeks, right under his keen pair of eyes. His head is slightly tilted, exposing the soft, pale skin, just a thin layer covering his carotid artery.

“As did I,” murmurs Strahd, and his lips are on that hot skin, with them he feels the quivering of a life that’s just waiting to be taken and as always the sensation fills him with the intoxicating thrill of power.

Strahd breathes in, forces his lungs to life to inhale the scent, and he feels his heart coming back to life lazily, prepared for the bite his whole body feels is coming. His lips brush against the skin of the neck, breathe on the scar he’s left there almost a month before, which the thin leather choker barely covers.

Arth doesn’t move, and if he does, he doesn’t object, doesn’t oppose any kind of resistance. Not even when the hand that was holding him close makes its way up his back — following the spine to the base of the neck — and unties the choker so that Strahd’s lips can better touch the flushing skin underneath.

Strahd’s fangs graze the skin of the neck, making their way to Arth’s elegant nape. Before they even sink into the skin, Strahd already feels the taste of blood on his lips, on his tongue, its warmth down his throat and in his body as his heart pumps it into his own undead veins.

Then he catches himself, he remembers it’s tomorrow, he’ll be able to bite Arth as much as he wants until there’s nothing left in him but the last lone breath before death.

He leaves a kiss instead, where his fangs didn’t bite, his lips caress the skin knowing this goodbye will only last a few hours.

“I believe,” he says, forcing his dead heart to stop again, “it would be better if you rested now.” He whispers on Arth’s skin, and it takes him an effort to part from it, to raise his head and straighten his back and regain his composure. He still hasn’t let go of him and one of his hand is still keeping his chin lifted.

Arth’s scent is as strong as ever and his wet eyes look up towards Strahd with huge dilated pupils. “Yes,” agrees Arth quietly, “it’s my last night of sleep.”

There’s a moment of silence swelling between them. When Arth swallows, Strahd can’t help but observe the muscles of his throat moving, and when Arth breathes Strahd stares at his chest rising and falling. His hand wanders down from Arth’s chin along the line of his jaw and down his neck. Arth’s position relaxes, and he looks away.

“But it’s strange…” he adds then, even quieter. His face is still flushed and his heartbeat hasn’t slowed at all. “I can’t wait for all the nights that will come after this.”

It shouldn’t surprise Strahd to hear that — and it doesn’t, for surprise isn’t the right word for it. But what he feels is pleasant, somewhere between satisfaction and desire. 

Their eyes meet again, and Strahd can see himself reflected in the dark pools that Arth’s eyes have become, can see his own irises flickering with a hint of red.

His fingers close in a fist, slowly, and he shuts his eyes for a moment. The scent is still there and the thirst, as strong as ever, stings the back of his throat; however, he’s in control. He loathes how much effort it takes him to maintain it, to keep his grasp on his plans, and he loathes how in the back of his mind he still wants nothing else but to sink his teeth into Arth’s soft skin, all over his body, and savor him for as long as he can.

When he opens his eyes again, when he relaxes his hands, Arth is right in front of him, still clinging to him. He’s staring attentively.

“Does it cause you pain,” he asks, after a moment, “to hold yourself back?” Arth’s voice is low and kind, his curious tone manages to be so childish, so innocent. It’s a question which Arth will soon be able to answer himself, and maybe that itself is part of the reason why he deserves an honest answer.

“Pain?” Strahd repeats. He raises his hand, leaves the warm throbbing neck to caress Arth’s face, the back of his hand stealing the warmth of Arth’s cheek. He offers a smile, a hint of curved lips. “It is not painful,” he explains. “It is difficult, especially when it comes to you.”

Their faces are so close now that he can feel the warmth of Arth’s breath on his lips and, with his tongue, he licks away its taste — sweet like he remembers fruit used to be. He can tell Arth wants to kiss him, but he also doesn’t dare touch that skin again with his lips, not if he can’t drink from it, too.

Arth’s eyes haven’t left his face and he looks mesmerized, wordless lips left ajar. He moves them uselessly a few time before they produce a laugh — not loud, but vibrating under his breath.

“Yes, it’s difficult for me too,” Arth says.

And Strahd can see it is. He can also see how stubbornly Arth resists his instincts — it tells him he’ll make a good vampire, one with enough self-control to become powerful, to be in charge of himself.

Strahd’s finger wanders over Arth’s cheek, exploring it inch by inch. This time, the smile unfolding on his lips is honest — it’s satisfied, and glad. Arth’s skin is smooth under his cold fingertips, it’s pliant and delicate, it offers itself, adapts itself, in its creases and its planes, not unlike Arth himself does with Strahd. The finger finally travels to Arth’s lips, brushes against them, presses them as if it wanted to make its way between them, inside — but then slips away as soon as they move to seize it.

Arth’s big eyes look larger than ever — one could drown in the black of his pupils — and he’s about to say something. Strahd feels the words form on his tongue but hushes him with that same finger and picks him up in a nimble gesture. He’s supporting Arth’s back with one arm and the back of his legs with the other and the distance between their faces has only reduced.

In the blink of an eye, they’re beside the bed, and a moment later Arth is laying down on it.

Strahd takes Arth’s face into his hands, both of them, and he whispers some words on his lips. He does it so softly, they’re impossible to ear.

He did not have to make a decision tonight, because the decision had already been made. And yet, the fact itself that he felt like he could have changed what he had planned, after everything was set in motion, too — that itself is a testament to how dangerous Arth is for him. How dangerous and yet how important, how desirable, how extraordinary.

He moves again in the blink of an eye, and it’s almost easier to part like that.

On the threshold of the bedroom, Arth’s scent isn’t as strong, it isn’t as intoxicating — but the thirst remains. Strahd’s intended is still laying down on the bed, and there’s still little more than surprise on his face at seeing him leave — as if he hasn’t had the time to process what has happened yet, or maybe as if he’s expected it all along.

“I look forward to seeing your beautiful dress,” Strahd says, before closing the door behind him.


End file.
